When hold-hands cold sets in
They might have been full.
Seeds sown late and harvested in vines,
We laugh.
We do not see their ephemerality.
We do not wonder how wistful they must be,
One by one drawn from the inside out,
etched eyes and endless grins gazing out the window;
Their children will not live,
but so hollow and bright and gone, they have no heart
to care.